


This Close to the Real Thing

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Birthday Party, Brad POV, Canon Era, Challenge Response, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Pining, Porn, Post-Canon, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just not fucking <i>on</i> to be having wet dreams about the LT when they were back, all safe and sound and resettled at Pendleton. That did <i>not </i>fucking compute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Close to the Real Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romanticalgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/gifts).



> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Dedicated to [](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**romanticalgirl**](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/) for her birthday. Written for the [Porn Skirmish](http://shoshannagold.livejournal.com/303031.html). Prompt was "wet dreams." Originally posted [here](http://shoshannagold.livejournal.com/303031.html?thread=2231735#t2231735). Also posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/395478.html).

"You have no idea what you look like, do you?" Nate mused, voice rough, a relentless weight pressing him into the bed. "No idea how insanely hot it is when you shove yourself down, try to get more – " Brad's body moved of its own volition, even though his brain knew it was useless given Nate's hold. "Yeah, just like that," Nate breathed against his belly. "Tell me how it feels." His finger teased at Brad's entrance, traced the butt plug where it disappeared into Brad's body. 

Brad grunted and tried to get more. In vain. 

Nate's finger moved away. "Tell me how it feels, Brad." Firmer, insistent. Not to be disobeyed.

Brad cleared his throat. "Full," he said finally. Fuck, his voice was shot. 

Nate made an encouraging noise and Brad swallowed, trying to verbalize the stretch, the unnatural not-give inside him, the way he _wanted_. "Feel full – wish it was you," he admitted, unable to hold that truth back.

Nate's finger teased Brad's entrance again. His other hand curled loosely around his cock. Brad whined high in his throat, but Nate shushed him. "I'll fuck you later – won't even need to open you up, just slide right home." Fuck, yes, Brad wanted that _right the fuck now_. 

Nate chuckled. Brad felt his breath at the tip of his cock, God, just so obscenely good. He opened his eyes in time to see Nate lick over the head, lap at the precome there, filthy in the best kind of way. Nate mouthed at the head, eyes glinting like he had a secret and couldn't wait to share. He sucked for just a moment, then pulled off.

Every muscle in Brad's body strained for more, but Nate simply laughed quietly. "There's something I didn't tell you," he confessed, no hint of repentance on his face. 

"What?"

That wicked grin flashed bright. "It's not just a butt plug." What the hell was he – 

But Nate was swallowing him down, all slick heat and those incredible lips and – 

And then there was vibrating, deep inside Brad, flare of blistering pleasure registering everywhere he could _feel_. Nate sucked his cock and twisted the plug, and the orgasm already had hold of him, utter white-out but for Nate's mischievous green eyes, still laughing at him.

Brad woke up coming – echoes of the dream's intensity curling through him, leaving him on his side, hot and sticky and shaking. From a _wet dream_. 

As far as combat stress reactions went, wet dreams featuring one's very pretty LT, those Brad understood. Nate had a mouth...and it was war, shit happened. It hadn't happened to _him_ , granted, but had it, he would've been able to shrug it off and get on with his life. Combat fucked with your brain; Brad got that.

But it was just not fucking _on_ to be having wet dreams about the LT when they were back, all safe and sound and resettled at Pendleton. That did _not_ fucking compute.

Brad got up, shimmied out of his briefs, and tossed them toward the hamper, maybe a little too forcefully, but it was the third time in as many days. They'd been back for weeks; what the fucking fuck?

Worse, the Nate in his head was a fucking brilliant lay. Porn-star quality. There was dirty talk and restraints and rimming – Nate was sex personified. Everything he did made Brad want to roll over and _beg_.

Brad didn't fucking roll over and beg. He'd been very thoroughly trained in not-begging. But apparently the mindfuck boys were really missing an asset in Nate's mouth because damn if Brad wasn't forsaking country, honor, and pride with a well-placed flick of Nate's tongue.

People shooting at him didn't give him the shakes, but give him a fantasy about the LT's mouth and look how the mighty had fallen.

Fuck, this was so fucked up, he couldn't even swear creatively about it. That was just wrong.

***

Brad sat at a weather-scarred table outside one of the ubiquitous beach taco shops in SoCal. He had an angle on Nate's little bungalow, he had sunshine, and he had tacos. This was far superior to wallowing about his renegade dick back at his place. With any luck, he'd remind his unconscious of Nate's simple humanity and get rid of the porn-star version in his head. Plus, it wasn't like he was stalking the LT or anything. He was hardly sitting outside his house with a telephoto lens. 

There was no cover outside Nate's house. Brad had checked already. Really fucking annoying, that.

His fourth taco was halfway to his mouth when Nate appeared beside him.

"Huh," Brad said, then took a bite. Odd to look _up_ at Nate. He surveyed the AO as he chewed – wifebeater, board shorts, Rainbows. Really pathetic combat tan, too. Nate held two sports bottles in one hand.

"Missing Daddy, Brad?" Nate asked, dry.

Brad dropped the remains of his taco and leaned back in his chair. "You should spend some time in the sand. It'll get rid of the dead skin on your feet."

Nate looked down at his feet, still peeling and an angry red. He flexed his toes. Brad flexed his hands and resisted the urge to touch. "Thanks for the tip." Nate offered a sports bottle and Brad accepted, curious. He sniffed its contents as Nate kicked out a chair and sprawled into it, not even asking permission. Appalling manners. What would his mother think?

The scent of whiskey bit at his nose. Knowing Nate, it was a good brand, too. "Nice," Brad muttered. Then he raised his eyes back to Nate, splayed out in the chair like a fucking invitation to crawl on top of him. "Someone's certainly embraced leave. Drinking before noon, sir? I'm shocked."

Nate shrugged. "It's happy hour somewhere." He took a swig.

"Hoo-fuckin-rah." Brad followed suit, savoring the burn.

***

"Someone's certainly embraced leave. Drinking before noon, sir? I'm shocked," Brad said. 

"The clairvoyant Iceman, shocked? I'm impressed with myself." Nate set his bottle down with deliberate finality. "I wonder what else would shock you," he murmured, green eyes trained on Brad like he expected an imminent attack.

Brad knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, so he stayed silent and still, submitting to Nate's perusal. 

That slow smile spread across Nate's face, a little bit devastating now that there were no intrusions to dilute the effect. Brad swallowed.

Nate moved fluidly, up from his seat in the span of a blink, sliding on top of Brad with another, knees balanced on either side of Brad's thighs, weight evenly distributed. The chair was big, but not _that_ big.

Also, Nate was _on top of him_. Brad's mind stuttered to a halt. 

Nate plucked the bottle from his hand and leaned over to set it on the ground. He was – really fucking close. Brad could feel the weight of him, the heat of him, he could smell the suntan lotion on his skin...

His mouth was harder than Brad expected – had he expected this? – a bruising crush of lips and teeth and tongue. Nate bit at his mouth, sucked on his tongue, shifted forward in his lap and rubbed against him – 

Brad gasped at that and jerked back. Nate followed, eyes dark, taking his mouth again. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

Brad turned his head to breathe – why couldn't he seem to breathe? – and Nate latched onto his jaw, sucking hard and thrusting against Brad again. Fuck, that would leave a mark.

"In public, Nate," Brad said, ragged, gripping Nate's hips to still the movement so maybe he could jumpstart his brain.

Nate palmed his jaw and pushed, forcing Brad to look at him. His grin had edges. "So?" he asked, circling his hips, cock pressing into Brad, heedless of Brad's hands trying to still him.

Fuck, he was strong.

Brad's vision stuttered, cock impossibly hard and vehemently agreeing with Nate's new acceptance of the 'nobody gives a fuck' mentality. Christ, he could come from this, from dry humping like two teenagers too impatient to get naked.

Nate breathed a laugh against his lips and they were kissing again, sharing the tang of whiskey and salt. Even Brad's hands rebelled, flexing rhythmically on Nate's hips, no kind of discouragement. 

Nate bit Brad's top lip and squeezed a nipple through his shirt – 

Brad sucked in ragged gasps of cool, early-morning air, the last shudders of his orgasm trembling through him as he pathetically clung to the twisted sheets. In bed. At home.

Alone.

 _Fuck_. 

***

Brad made it out to the beach by oh-five-thirty. At this hour his only companions were the really dedicated runners and the surfers angling for a clean shot at the perfect wave. He ran slowly, warming his muscles. A mile out from Nate's place he reversed course, doubling-back beside his footprints which were even now slowly sinking into nothingness.

He didn't react when he saw Nate, decked out in PT gear and headed his way. Brad maintained the Iceman cool even as the distance between them disappeared, even when he could see the flush in Nate's cheeks.

"Sergeant," Nate greeted a few paces out.

"Sir."

Nate ran right by him.

Brad missed a couple strides, breath catching oddly in his throat. The fuck? 

He looked back, but Nate had kept on running, hell, he'd picked up the pace. Fuck. Brad huffed, reversed course again, and jogged to catch up.

Nate didn't acknowledge his presence, but the corners of his lips had turned up.

"Mind if I join you, LT?" Brad asked, once the silence lingered long enough that he knew Nate wouldn't speak first.

Nate finally looked at him then, green eyes alight, simultaneously amused and _fierce_. "If you can keep up." He took off running.

Huh. Anyone else and Brad would think Nate was playing hard-to-get. But it _was_ Nate. And reality was never that kind. Not to Brad, anyway.

Brad appreciated the sight of Nate running for a single moment, then pushed aside that minefield and lengthened his stride. He'd show Nate 'if.'

***

"If you can keep up." He took off running.

Brad grinned and sprinted after him. Nate may be fast, but Brad had longer legs and more efficient respiration. No contest. 

He caught up to Nate less because of those factors than because, well, he stopped. 

Brad was actually out of breath. He couldn't _remember_ the last time he was out of breath. Jesus.

"You, sir, are fucking fast," he panted as he flopped onto the sand near the rock shelf.

Nate was hunched over his knees, also breathing hard, but grinning. "You couldn't catch me."

"I would've."

"Keep telling yourself that." Nate smirked. Brad needed to look away.

"You do this every day?" he asked instead.

"Most days."

"Huh. No wonder your ass looks like that." Shit, did he say that out loud?

Nate simply grinned. He straightened and ambled over, gait loose and relaxed, shirt clinging. Un-fucking-fair. Instead of dropping to the sand beside Brad, he sat on top of him, little teasing smile promising far more than a straight-laced officer should even know about. 

Brad blinked up at him.

"About time you noticed my ass, Sergeant." Nate shifted up, rubbing against Brad's crotch and leaning over to lick at Brad's mouth. 

Fuck.

He took a breath – which Nate took as an invitation – and then Nate was really on him, licking into his mouth and pressing against him, sand shifting around them.

Brad moaned. He couldn't help it; he'd run ten miles and forced himself not to stare at Nate's ass...and there was only so much self-control possible for one man. And with the way Nate was kissing him – hungry, intent, like it was all he could think of – Brad didn't fucking _want_ to be self-controlled. 

Nate pushed up Brad's shirt and broke their kiss, leaning down to nuzzle Brad's chest. One hand held Brad down while the other set about exploring the tent he was already pitching in his shorts. Just that simple touch made the situation far too desperate – he was so fucking pathetic – and Brad hissed as his dick swelled. Nate grinned and bit his nipple, sucking strongly and then biting again. 

Brad made more noise – he was _never_ noisy – but then Nate answered with a moan of his own, something low and throaty and pleased. He moved over to Brad's other nipple. 

When Brad realized his hands were grasping uselessly at sand, his brain kicked in again. Nate was on top of him. Nate _wanted_ him.

Brad rolled them over, using his height to his advantage here. He was still between Nate's thighs, so he ground down, rubbing their cocks against each other. "Fuck, _yes_ ," he hissed at the rush of heat.

It took him a second to feel Nate's foot against his calf; by then it was already too late. Nate flipped them over again, this time pinning him in place with intent. His eyes glittered.

"Nope," Nate said, clipped. "I started it; my rules."

"Nate – "

Nate shifted his weight, using his legs to hold Brad down while freeing up one hand. He continued as if Brad hadn't spoken: "And right now, I want to watch you come." He pushed down Brad's shorts without preamble, just enough to free his erection. Then his long fingers wrapped around Brad's cock and he stroked, rough and hot.

It lit up nerves right down to Brad's toes. He moaned and shifted – 

Dammit, he couldn't even thrust into Nate's fist. He could only lay back and gasp as Nate stroked him off, watching him with those glittering green eyes, licking his lips – 

"Fucking prettyboy cocktease," Brad growled, only dimly realizing he was verbalizing the thought. 

Nate raised an eyebrow. "Cocktease, am I?" He gripped tighter, just the other side of too tight, but Brad wasn't about to protest, wouldn't even if he could, not when the manhandling had his whole body tingling, so close, reaching for – 

A wholly unsatisfying orgasm. Brad slumped against his sheets, spent in every way, sleep pants already starting to stick to him. 

It was just cruel. That his brain kept using their real-life interactions to spin into wet dreams every night. It fooled Brad into thinking...into hoping...well, whatever. His brain was sadistic. Or masochistic?

Brad slid out of bed and winced at the feeling.

Now this was plain undignified.

***

Nate's birthday meant an iron-clad, no-bullshit-excuses, platoon-wide party so they could liquor him up. And strip him down, but that was probably only in Brad's mind. 

Fuck, that _better_ only be in Brad's mind.

Ray organized the whole thing. Naturally, it was boisterous, boozy, and utterly appalling to Nate's Ivy League sensibilities. As Ray no doubt intended. 

Brad had kept eyes on Nate throughout the evening, though Nate avoided him admirably. He also avoided the mostly-naked strippers as much as he could. When he couldn't he made a valiant – if not always successful – effort to look them in the eyes. He drew the line at lap dances, though. 

Maybe Brad should offer him a lap dance, just to keep things equitable and all. 

Some of the girls seemed genuinely disappointed after getting a look at Nate – not surprising given the rest of the inbred retards they were forced to fondle. 

Chaffin licked his lips, blew an obscene kiss, and waved at one of the girls with a dollar bill. What a stingy piece of shit. Brad would have to mock him for it later. Mike had already dispatched Manimal to the backyard for bringing shame on his recon brothers – and _that_ was saying something – Trombley was passed out in the closet, and Ray had been MIA since Walt grabbed his arm and hauled him off.

Brad chose not to examine that too closely. 

More pressing...where had the LT wandered off to?

Brad walked down the hall to check the bathroom, simply to make sure the LT wasn't choking on his own vomit, of course. A bedroom door behind him opened, he turned – 

Nate hauled him inside the room. "Don't be conspicuous or anything, Brad," Nate muttered, shutting the door carefully behind him and listening. 

Brad relaxed against the wall next to the door, smiling lazily at Nate. "In Mike's guest bedroom, Nate? Bold of you. I'm mildly impressed."

At his name, Nate turned from the door and blinked at Brad. "I'm sorry?"

Brad waved it away. "No need. Save the apology for Mike after you mess up the sheets."

A line appeared between Nate's eyes. "I don't follow."

"Fuck it, why are we still talking?" Brad pushed off the wall and moved into Nate. Nate stepped back, bringing his body flush against the door. Brad framed him, leaning close, running the tip of his nose down Nate's neck. He'd expected Nate to take control again, but apparently not. Maybe when he didn't initiate, he wasn't such a pushy motherfucker.

And Brad has been thinking that it wasn't like him to just roll over and take it. Good to know that was still the case.

"Brad – " Nate said, low, some kind of plea.

Brad pulled away from Nate's neck, enough to get at his mouth. He nipped at Nate's bottom lip, soothed it with his tongue. 

Nate's mouth opened, breathing in sharply. Brad smiled, then plunged his tongue _in_ , kissing him, wanton, just like Nate always was with him. Brad traced over Nate's palate, sucked on his tongue, then just tongue-fucked his mouth until Nate's fingers flexed helplessly in Brad's t-shirt.

Yeah, about time he got to make Nate beg for it. His unconscious was branching out. 

When that really landed, Brad pulled back. Had he ever thought of the dreams while he was dreaming?

He blinked at Nate. Nate blinked back. Brad's stomach bottomed out.

 _Fuck_.

Nate swallowed, his lips swollen and red. He cleared his throat. Then he shook his head, just one little shake as the corner of his mouth turned up. He met Brad's eyes.

"You piece of shit," Nate said, not unkindly.

Something in Brad's gut unclenched. Slightly. 

At his continued silence, Nate's eyes narrowed, an edge suddenly in the air. His hands, still tangled in Brad's shirt, gripped tight. Brad didn't resist as Nate shoved him and turned them so Brad's back hit the wall. Nate didn't move away, simply held him in place with casual strength.

"What, nothing to say?" Nate mocked. 

"Something in particular you'd like to hear, sir?" The 'sir' was automatic, but he wanted to take it back as soon as it was out. Dammit. Brad clenched his jaw and shut the fuck up. He wasn't helping himself.

Nate's look got dangerous. "I don't appreciate being fucked with, Sergeant."

How about just plain being fucked?

Brad kept his counsel on that one. He flicked his eyes away and said nothing. 

Nate gripped his jaw and made him meet his eyes. Suddenly, Brad was outside the taco stand, Nate in his lap, rubbing up against him, hand hot against Brad's jaw.

Brad swallowed past the tight thing in his throat.

Nate's eyes dropped to his mouth, calculating. Something flickered across his face...and then he crushed his mouth to Brad's, hard enough to hurt, a kind of desperate intensity to the kiss. His hand kept Brad's jaw where it was, but the one in his shirt, that one shook a little. 

Christ, Brad was so fucking fucked.

He softened into Nate's kiss, released the tension in his shoulders, let the wall hold him up and simply focused on _feeling_ this, the insistent press of Nate's lips – _wanting_ – the accidental scrape of Nate's teeth. Brad lapped at Nate's mouth, tasting not-terrible beer, Mike's ribs, and _heat_. He slowed it down, savoring all Nate's sharp edges, the force of him, the urgency, nothing Brad ever thought he'd get.

Nate hesitated at the shift, a little breath sucked in, and then the kiss changed completely, from something pointed to a slick slide of mouths and tongues, easy and intimate and way too familiar for the first time. Nate's hand slid around to the back of his neck, pulled him closer, and he settled against Brad's body like it was second-fucking-nature.

Brad reached out to touch – Nate warm and real and moving underneath his fingers. Jesus. Brad opened himself to it, to the kiss, the contact, this shared feeling that reverberated from one to the other and back again.

Nate pulled his mouth away with a little wanting sound. He panted against Brad's chin, kind of nuzzling his cheek.

Fuck, that shouldn't be hot.

"Think it's pretty safe to say I want to fuck you," Nate muttered, voice all low and rough and _sounding_ like all the dirty, filthy, brilliant sex they'd never fucking had. 

"Can we stop talking about fucking and get to the actual fucking?"

Nate breathed out a laugh, but held Brad firm when he tried to move. "What you said before – impressed with being in Mike's bedroom, bold of me – that was..." Nate prompted.

Brad dipped his head. "I've been having these...dreams," he breathed against Nate's mouth.

Nate hmmed and kissed him again. "You'll have to tell me. Make them real. Later, though. Right now, we need to fuck."

Thank fucking _Christ_.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
